


Burning Bright

by shadow_lover



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Desperate Arousal, Double Virgins, Extra Treat, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Anime Finale, Post-Coital Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 14:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Saruhiko clutches his wrist and thinks for one wild second that his aura has stabilized, but this is neither blue nor red nor green. This is just a word thudding through his veins: Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.





	Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Hi! I couldn't resist your tags and prompts and thoughts about these two, and I hope you enjoy this treat :)

The fight’s over and Saruhiko’s stitched up and his hands still itch for his knives. He cocks his wrist, feels the solid weight of a hilt in his palm, and breathes. No. Even that isn’t helping. The knife is solid, cold, and utterly mundane. Neither fire nor ice cascades through his veins; his power is tattered and fraying at his seams.

He needs to fight. He needs to hurt and be hurt. He needs to feel something real.

His leg twinges as he mounts the stairs. Everyone else is in the office or in the streets, patching up the city and triaging Scepter 4’s role in it, but when he returned from the infirmary, Awashima took one look at him and ordered him to his room. He almost argued, but she was drawn thin as a blade and twice as sharp. Might have argued anyway, but today he is empty of words and hollow inside.

Halfway up the stairs, he leans his shoulder against the wall to catch his breath. He doesn’t know how everyone else can still be running around. It’s harder to recover without the slates.

It’s harder to breathe.

His watch chimes. A ringtone he hears all too infrequently, but he would recognize it anywhere. Saruhiko opens the message from Misaki: _can i come over_

His next breath is hotter, a curl of flame around his heart. Saruhiko clutches his wrist and thinks for one wild second that his aura has stabilized, but this is neither blue nor red nor green. This is just a word thudding through his veins: Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.

Saruhiko texts back, _no_ , and continues climbing. He’s cleared three steps by the next reply: _too bad_

He sighs. Pitches his knife back into its sheath. Continues upwards.

His door is cracked open. He sighs again—louder—he’s being petty—and pushes it open all the way.

“Misaki.” He means to draw it out like usual, but he can’t muster the energy. The name comes out neutral. Blank. Which is stupid, because it’s the only real thing he’s said in hours.

Misaki looks about as fucked-up as Saruhiko feels. He’s on Saruhiko’s bed, slouched against the pillows, socked feet pushing the blankets askew. He’s holding one of Saruhiko’s game consoles, frowning at the screen, but the power light at the top isn’t on. Idiot. His face is ghost-pale, and shadows like bruises circle his eyes. That might be a real bruise cresting one cheek. He looks fucking exhausted.

But he still manages to drop the console and leap to his feet. “Saru.” He takes a step forward, then halts as if reaching the end of his leash. His gaze drops to Saruhiko’s thigh. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“They said it was worse than—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Saruhiko bites out. But he can’t help himself. The next word is softer. “Idiot.”

And when Misaki’s face pinks up, when he looks away and rubs his hand over the back of his neck, Saruhiko feels warmth curling through his veins. Something darker and deeper than an aura.

Maybe Misaki’s always done that to him.

Misaki, who’s still standing in the middle of Saruhiko’s tiny dorm room, jaw clenched, a desperate lost puppy in his too-big clothes. He probably has no idea how much younger he looks like that, thin arms drowning in his baggy sleeves, the wide neck sliding over his collarbone.

Saruhiko closes the door behind himself. Hears the lock click automatically into place. He kicks his shoes off. “Did you come to talk, Mi-sa-ki?”

His name unchains him; Misaki surges forward, quickly enough that Saruhiko flicks a knife into his palm on instinct—but Misaki stops half a foot away, eyes wide. Like he’s looking for something. “You’re such a fucking jerk,” he snaps. “I don’t want to talk, I just want to see if you’re okay.”

His beanie’s missing, and his hair’s fallen over his face. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are bloodshot, and he’s so beautiful it hurts. It’s crazy. All this—three kings, three clans, three colors, fading from his grasp—he still has this one thing to hold onto.

“Because I’m not okay,” Misaki says. “The aura—I can barely feel it. Like it’s—it’s spilling out of me, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.”

“You should be with your clan,” Saruhiko says, desperately glad Misaki isn’t.

Desperately, shamefully glad when Misaki says, “I can’t. It hurts too bad.”

Unlike this, which hurts just right.

Saruhiko flicks the knife back into its sheath. Reaches out, slowly, Misaki could back away if he wanted to, he doesn’t, and brushes the hair from Misaki’s forehead.

The contact is electric. He reels with the force of it: a pull of power, sweet fire coiling around his bones from phalanx to vertebra. The bare bedroom darkens, narrows, and all he can see is Misaki turning even redder. Trembling. Not pulling away.

“Yes,” Saruhiko lies, or promises, “I’m okay.”

Misaki looks like he’s about to protest. Like he wants to _talk_ , despite his insistence otherwise, and Saruhiko can’t even think, much less talk today. He needs Misaki to shut up.

He slides his hand over Misaki’s face, palm against his red-hot cheek, fingers tangled in his hair. Savors the wide, wild look in Misaki’s eyes, the way his lips part, wordless, before Saruhiko covers them in his.

Misaki makes a strangled noise into his mouth. Tries jerking away, but Saruhiko holds him still, fingers twisted at the back of his hair. Kisses him softly, slowly, because he’s burning up inside and any friction will set him ablaze. And then Misaki’s hands are at his chest, shoving, and he can’t breathe anyway, so—

Saruhiko pulls back but keeps his iron grip in Misaki’s hair. His pulse pounds in his ears. He’s breathless. 

Misaki is glorious. Wide-eyed, stunned, his lips red. “Damn it, Saru.” He’s straining against Saruhiko’s grip again, but this time he’s leaning in. No longer shoving but gripping tight to Saruhiko’s jacket. “What… What the hell are you…”

“Still such a virgin, Misaki.” Saruhiko loosens his grip in Misaki’s hair, circles his fingers loosely around Misaki’s throat. Feels him swallow against his palm. “We can fix that.”

Misaki, redder than ever, lunges forward and drags Saruhiko in for another kiss. This time he’s trying so hard, it’s actually awful. Too much teeth, then too little, his mouth too open. It’s so damn good his lungs are singing with it. _His_ Misaki, focused only on _him_.

He should have done this years ago.

He pulls back just enough and holds Misaki in place, one hand on his neck, the other at his waist. Feels his stomach fluttering under that stupid baggy shirt. When they kiss again, Saruhiko keeps it slow, close, until Misaki is gasping. 

He steps forward. Misaki stumbles with him until he hits the wall. Saruhiko freezes, worried for a shredded moment of sanity that Misaki will freak out, balk, leave him aching and alone and worse than ever. But Misaki’s leaning into him even as Saruhiko presses him against the wall. Misaki’s cock is hard against his thigh.

Misaki buries his face against Saruhiko’s chest, mutters, “Fuck.” Whines when Saruhiko slides his hand under his shirt, and maps out his hot, trembling skin. Misaki’s waist fits so perfectly in his hands.

He wants to strip Misaki down. Shred his clothes off. He can’t stop touching him long enough to do it. Not when Misaki’s tugging on his jacket, on his hair, before pressing dry, tender kisses to his throat. Saruhiko groans, lets his head fall back, as Misaki’s soft kisses turn hard. As teeth nip hesitantly at his pulse. 

He’s never done this before, Saruhiko remembers suddenly as his thumbs slide over Misaki’s hipbones, as he presses into tender flesh and Misaki _shudders_. He’s never done this before, but Misaki’s pulse and breath are incandescent guidelights, and his nerves are a distant echo he can obsess over later. For now, he’s drawing away just enough to tug at Misaki’s shirt, to breathe into Misaki’s ear, “Take this off.”

For once in his life, Misaki does as he’s told, and takes it off. The shirt drops to the floor, and now Saruhiko’s hands run up bare arms, down. Now he can _see_ the rise and fall of Misaki’s ribs through his thin tank as he shoves him back against the wall.

He braces one arm against the wall by Misaki’s head. Drags the fingers of the other down Misaki’s chest. Down his stomach. Pauses at the waistband of his shorts.

“Misaki.” He feels in this moment, with Misaki’s skin singing to his touch, with his veins alight with a more mundane magic, that he can have whatever he desires. He desires this: “Misaki, look at me.”

Misaki groans, gives up on Saruhiko’s shirt buttons, slumps back against the wall, and looks at him. His lips are parted, his eyes bright as flame, and he doesn’t look away as Saruhiko slides his hand down between cloth and skin. He curls his palm around Misaki’s cock, and the way Misaki jumps against him, the way the need and heat shiver over his skin—it’s nearly as good as touching himself. 

It’s better.

The angle’s awkward. He should rearrange them. He should spread Misaki out on his bed and touch and taste every centimeter of him. Instead, he shifts his grip, and savors Misaki’s breathless profanity, and prays he can stay upright.

He barely has to move. Misaki ruts desperately into his hand, and he must be taken by the same overwhelming aura as Saruhiko, because he’s not catatonic with embarrassment. He’s staring dead into Saruhiko’s eyes as they move together. His hands slip against Saruhiko’s neck.

It’s Saruhiko who breaks and looks away. He buries his forehead in Misaki’s neck. His glasses dig into the bridge of his nose, and he can’t tell if the lenses are fogged or if he’s just that gone. His leg burns around the stitches. He curves, and Misaki’s slung one arm across his shoulders, holding him down. The other hand fumbles desperately at his jacket, his shirt. They’re pressed so close together that Saruhiko’s hand brushes his own cock on every pump, sweet friction even through layers of fabric. 

Misaki’s grip tightening, fingers clawing into his back and shoulders, is Saruhiko’s only warning before Misaki groans and shivers against him, and his fingers are slick with come.

“Oh,” breathes Misaki, “Wow,” and that’s it. Saruhiko comes too, like an afterthought, when his every nerve and cell is wrapped up in Misaki’s brilliance.

He realizes his hand’s still lazily pumping when Misaki squirms, shoves at his arm. He freezes, then extricates himself. He can’t feel his arms or legs. He’s so dizzy he might pass out.

Misaki doesn’t look much more lucid, slumped against the wall like that. Face red, eyes glassy, clothes all fucked-up, and fuck, Saruhiko did that to him. There are bruises on Misaki’s neck he doesn’t remember leaving. He left his mark on him.

Misaki wipes his hand over his mouth and staggers a step closer. “You—you already…”

Saruhiko graciously doesn’t force him to finish the question. It’s definitely not embarrassment that he came in his pants like a fucking teenager. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Wow,” Misaki breathes again. Like it’s _hot_ , not humiliating. He’s always been so lame. 

Saruhiko doesn’t know what to say to that. With his clean hand, he adjusts his glasses. “I need to wash my hands.”

“What? Oh! Oh. Yeah. Ha.” Misaki seems to wilt, and his next smile is fake.

Saruhiko sighs. Misaki is an idiot, but it’s his job to help him understand. “Go… sit on the bed. You can stay over a bit.”

It’s stupidly, wondrously gratifying, the way Misaki lights up at the invitation. And when he comes back from the bathroom, Misaki’s curled up on his bed, head on his pillow, back to the room. He doesn’t move when Saruhiko climbs in behind him, except to shiver when Saruhiko traces the bare line of his arm, and to press closer when Saruhiko wraps an arm over his waist and buries his nose in his hair.

His aura still isn’t right, but it matters less right now. He is so full up with this other strange, nameless power, with the scent of Misaki’s skin, with the slowing rhythm of his breath.

“I’m not okay,” he finally admits into Misaki’s neck.

Misaki wriggles against him, shifting, until he can wrap a warm hand around Saruhiko’s wrist, and hold him closer. “Me either,” he mumbles. “But we will be.”

This time, as the adrenaline fades, Saruhiko feels at peace. The fight is over. Wrapped up in his Misaki, he can rest.


End file.
